Chapter II: All For The Want Of A Horseshoe Nail

History often depends on small things. A horse loses a shoe and a message doesn’t get to the right place in time, and suddenly half a continent belongs to someone else. A watch is thirty seconds fast or a nut is inadequately tightened, and suddenly a few hundred people are dead and the whole country’s looking for a scapegoat. A vital memo is put in the wrong pigeonhole and nobody notices because its owner happens to be off all week with the flu and suddenly the auditors are in, the staff are picketing for softer loo roll or something and the builders putting in an extension have filled the managing director’s car with cement because they haven’t been paid. By such things does the world reshape itself from what it once was to what it will be.

In this case, it was a fox straying onto a motorway, forcing the driver of a Ford Escort to perform an emergency stop. The heavy goods vehicle ten yards behind was unable to stop in time on the rain-slicked tarmac and slammed into the Escort with some force, causing significant damage to both the vehicles and prompting the driver of the heavy goods vehicle to suggest to the driver of the Escort that it might have been a good idea to look in the mirror first before stopping for anything short of a herd of cattle, using in the process a number of expressions he probably hadn’t learned at his mother’s knee. The magistrates would eventually determine that nobody was to blame, but the result was that the road was blocked for two hours whilst the police sorted the mess out.

Somewhere in the middle of the ensuing five-mile tailback was Remus Lupin, who was making his way to Peter’s flat to drop off a book he’d borrowed. If he had been so much as four car-lengths further back, he might have been too late to see something of considerable importance to him. If he’d been four car-lengths further forward, history would have been different yet again.

However, it so happened that he arrived outside the nondescript block of mid-range flats in an anonymous small town in the East Midlands just in time to see Sirius hurl himself bodily at the main door and tear it clean off its hinges.

“What in the name of-?”

“Peter! You backstabbing little shite, I’m going to cut your bollocks off and ram them up your arse!” Sirius bellowed. Remus was horrified to see that his friend was carrying a tyre iron.

“Padfoot, what in the name of Christ is going on?” he demanded, getting out of the car.

Sirius didn’t seem to hear him, but began belabouring Peter’s front door with the tyre iron. Wormtail scrambled awkwardly out of the window and dropped gracelessly into the shrubbery.

“Peter! What the hell’s with him?”

Peter ignored him, and sprinted down the street. Sirius bellowed with rage and gave chase. Remus sprinted after them both, bereft of the faintest idea of what was going on but knowing it wasn’t good.

He finally caught up with them in the middle of a street, screaming at each other.

“You handed them to Voldemort, you bastard!” Peter bellowed as Remus came into view.

“Bullshit!” Sirius yelled back.

“Okay, neither of you move!” Remus yelled, drawing his wand. “Wands down and hands in the air right now!” Sirius complied, but Pettigrew hesitated. “And you, Peter! Nobody is going anywhere until the Aurors get here, and then they can sort this out! I said drop it!”

“Moony, you don’t understand-”

“Too fucking right I don’t, and right now I don’t trust either of you until someone gets some verisateum down you. Last warning, Wormtail!”

Peter swore viciously and shot a blasting hex straight into the centre of the tarmac, hoping to distract them enough to transform and bolt for safety, but scored a direct hit on the gas main beneath it. All three Marauders and dozens of bystanders were hurled head over heels by the explosion, and every window in the street was shattered. Deadly crystal shrapnel scythed through the shops, embedding itself in wood and flesh. A waiter cooking crepes in a nearby restaurant was knocked over, causing a fire to break out and adding to the mayhem. The plume of fire from the gas main refused to die out for nearly ten minutes, the blasting hex having interfered with the automatic safety features, and only when one brave individual seized a fire extinguisher and blasted the ruptured pipe with CO2 did it finally dim.

Concussed and badly knocked about but not critically injured, Remus forced his eyes open. “Sirius…?” he croaked.

Sirius was standing, mostly, and seemed to be laughing. Remus couldn’t hear much, but he could tell there was little enough humour in it.

He held his grip on his consciousness long enough to see the laughter turn to sobs.

Once again, it’s the small pebbles that change the course of history. For example, had Bartemius Crouch Jr pulled up on a broom a few seconds earlier, he would have been caught up in the explosion and knocked senseless, leaving Peter dependent on his back-up plan of assuming his animagus form and sneaking into a pet shop to lie low for the duration. However, Young Barty timed his arrival to perfection, applying a special concealment spell that enabled those beneath it to see one another whilst remaining invisible to others and helping Peter aboard the similarly be-spelled broom. Even when DMLE forensics experts swept for residual magic traces, the spell in question -developed by Voldemort himself and a closely-guarded secret- was not recognised for what it was, but since there was nothing to indicate a disapparation or more conventional concealment spell the evidence against Sirius Black was compelling.

“Compelling,” Albus Dumbledore noted, “but not conclusive.”

“Tell that to Crouch,” Moody suggested sourly.

“I shall, Alastor. I shall also tell a jury of Sirius Black’s peers so at the earliest opportunity.”

“That would rather depend on him getting a trial, I’m afraid.”

Albus looked up sharply. “What are you saying?”

“Sirius Black will not be leaving Azkaban. Crouch’s orders, under the Emergency Powers Act.”

“Without questioning any witnesses or identifying that spell trace? What the hell does he think he’s playing at?” Albus exclaimed. “Has he even questioned Sirius under verisateum?”

“You tell me; I’m not part of the case. Scringemour said I’d be biased.”

“I see.” Albus commanded himself to remain calm. “We will make our own inquiries, then.”

After Alastor had left, Albus opened a cabinet behind his desk and drew out a perfectly ordinary telephone. Elaborate protective spells and heavily insulated wiring enabled it to withstand the high concentration of background magic inside the school grounds, and it had proven useful for discussing any concerns he had about muggleborn students with their parents. However, it had originally been installed for another purpose.

“Hello?”

“Mr Grey, it’s Albus. I take it you have heard the news?”

“Yeah. Care to play Spot The Inconvenient Fact?”

“I have no need, it seems. What do your sources tell you?”

“Plenty, especially since unlike the DMLE, we bothered to question as many witnesses as we could find before the Obliviators moved in. Pettigrew was standing within shouting distance of Black, for a start. None of the bystanders saw exactly what happened to him, but there’s no physically possible way his body was vaporised in the explosion.”

“You’re certain of that?” Albus replied. “I’ve seen bomb-blasts do many odd things during the war.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean, but that explosion simply wasn’t big enough; the Aurors would’ve found bits left over if somebody had been standing on top of it. And that’s without determining precisely who fired the blasting hex and who Lily and James Potter’s assigned Secret-Keeper really was, both of which now seem to be matters for grave doubt.”

“That,” Albus replied, “is exactly what I wish to know. Find out what you can, Mr Grey. Whoever the true culprit is, I will not stand for this travesty of due process of law to continue.”

“Gladly. After all, we are but a continuation of law and order by other means.”

When Albus hadn’t stopped laughing after ten minutes, ‘Mr Grey’ gave in and hung up.

Dumbledore’s good mood did not last long. He put down the telephone, and made his way to Hogsmeade in order to apparate to St Mungo’s.

“He’s not in any danger,” the Healer informed him. “Moderate concussion, a broken wrist and a few cuts and bruises. He’s sleeping now, but when he wakes up…”

“I must tell him that two of his oldest and closest friends have been murdered,” Albus replied bitterly.

Outside, fireworks exploded brilliantly. Dumbledore barely resisted the urge to hurl something through the window, instead walking out into the street and preparing to go home.

“I believe it was Arthur Wellsley, Duke of Wellington, who first spoke of ‘the melancholy nature of victory.’ I don’t think I ever fully understood what he meant until today,” a familiar voice remarked. Albus looked up with interest.

“I must say, I never expected to see you anywhere near this part of London, Alexis.”

“Just Alex is fine, Albus. Or Alexander, if you prefer; I have various identifying documents to prove that I am in fact Alexander Malone, maritime insurance broker and father of two. No, I’m only out here to visit a couple of pureblood friends; didn’t even know Voldemort was dead until they told me.”

“Does it affect your position?” Albus asked carefully.

“Only if Lucius is convicted, and even then I’d be reluctant; I’m sure he’d send a cheque from Azkaban if someone offs me. Still, it was worth it to wipe that sneer off his face…”

“Now you listen to me, Alexis. If you persist in following your absurd infatuation with that muggleborn girl, you’ll bring shame on the whole family.”

“Shame? Have you seen Lucius’s arm lately, Father? Yes, that’s right. He’s one of them now. A so-called Knight of Walpurgis, or ‘Death Eater’ as the Prophet would have it these days. And you accuse me of bringing shame on the family? Hah!”

“Alexis, you know perfectly well that I dislike Voldemort’s methods, but there is much truth in what he preaches. Besides, we have a position in society to maintain. Think of the effect this will have-”

“On your status with your chums at the club, or Mother’s ordering-seamstresses-about circle? I’m sorry, Father, but I refuse to run my life according to someone else’s peer pressure.”

“Alexis, I do not wish to resort to resort to threats, but I fear you are leaving me with no choice.”

“What are you going to do, disown me? Write me out of the will? Go ahead, and see if I give a damn. I don’t need your money or your old-boy network to survive, unlike certain people I could name. I can even be packed and ready to leave in an hour.”

“If that is your decision, Alexis, then there shall be no going back.”

“Fine. But for the love of all that’s holy, Father, it doesn’t have to be like this! Kitty’s an intelligent, caring woman and I love her. Does it really matter who her parents are?”

“You know damn well it does, Alexis.”

“No, father, I don’t. Which is of course what this is all about.”

“Well, well. Alexis. Going somewhere?”

“What’s it to you?”

“Just curious. I heard you and Father hard at it in the study; not still trying to talk him round, are you?”

“Not any more, no.”

“At last, you see the light! Alright, I’ll grant you that your pet mudblood might have been a nice bit of skirt, but- Gnnh!”

“Call her a name like that to my face again and I’ll break your fucking neck, do you understand?”

“Youh pohxy bloohd traihtor! You lowhlife- Gnnh!”

“What in the name of-? Alexis! How dare you-”

“How dare I? He uses that, that filthy insult against my fiancee and I’m in the wrong? Or perhaps you think using my fists instead of my wand is belittling myself…”

“Get out of this house! Get out, and never come back!”

“Gladly. And you two can both rot in hell as far as I’m concerned.”

“You are a disgrace to-”

“Good! Because do you know something? You make me ashamed to be a Malfoy!”

Alex smiled faintly as he left his brief reverie. “Wonder what my father would say now?”

“We shall probably never know. Now, I believe you know young Harry Potter’s aunt.”

“That’s news to me,” he replied. “Not that she’d connect me to Lily; as far as she and anyone else nearby know, I can’t even get one of those Paul Daniels conjuring tricks to work.”

Albus nodded thoughtfully. “Her married name is Dursley, I believe.”

The younger man’s face froze, then began a slow, majestic yet shattering descent of the sort Dumbledore had often admired in glaciers calving icebergs. “Petunia Dursley. Harry Potter’s last living relative is Petunia Dursley. Oh, sweet mother of Jesus…” He sighed. “Voldemort gets the last laugh after all.”